


The Lore Keeper

by PsuedoQuiddity



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fazbear's Fright, Gen, Like the books but as canon as I can make it, Survival Horror, secrets galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsuedoQuiddity/pseuds/PsuedoQuiddity
Summary: The rumors circulating around a timeworn, nostalgic entertainment restaurant happen to be the next urban legend that's being brought from the forums of the internet and back into the public eye. This time, the tragedy will be revealed in the form of a striking horror attraction, advertising vintage animatronics and thrills. It catches the attention of the lore keepers, those who still remember and those who wish to forget.





	The Lore Keeper

_“Sorry upfront that it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything substantial, but I swear that it’ll be worth it.  
Oh, just you all wait. I think this time it’s really something.”_

 

The atmosphere filling the van, like a thick smog that curls around their lungs, is up to interpretation, but Gwen would argue that it’s pure, unadulterated excitement. It’s impatience and a thrill-seeking foreboding that fills her head and slips betwixt her nerves, spurring her fingers and feet to tap with unspent energy.  


The beginning months of summer have prolonged the daylight, the sun casting its last, gilded colors upon the screen of her laptop. She shifts around in her seat, suddenly wary of getting a headache this close to the beginning of her journey.  
Her _journey_. The word rolls smoothly through her thoughts, and her knee starts shaking again, bouncing the laptop resting there. Gwen puts it away, for now, but the only anticipation that rivals the one circulating in the van is the pull to write, to update, but there’s nothing new that’s worth a postable paragraph.  


It was promised that they would get there by six. She leans her head against the cool door of the van, feeling the vibrations of the vehicle, hearing the rush of cars moving past. She breathes in, breathes out, and tries to sink into the ambient sounds of traffic. The window is a seat ahead of her. There are the soft, muted noises of conversation in the front seat, and it reminds her of being young. If she closes her eyes, she can picture her parents in their place, driving her to the beach, or to a campsite; a family destination.  


She’s certainly old enough to drive now and has been for more than a decade, but this isn’t her van.  


The clinking of metallics, a box of tripods and stands, comes from ahead, and Christopher’s arm slides into view as he steadies the equipment that shakes with the rest of the van. Gwen lazily eyes the empty, plastic containers next to her, stacked and filling up the back, to see if they’ll do the same. Too tightly packed, one on top of the other, they stay completely still. 

Breathe in, breathe out. The road rumbles beneath them. 

Sighing, covering the sound of mellow laughter while focusing on the idle ambiance. 

Gwen turns her head to study the opposite wall and, locking eyes with the blue, synthetic ones on the poster pasted there, finds that she can’t quite suppress her excited buzz, and decides to stop trying. 

 

_“My job is to do more than dig up the past; it’s to blow the dust from history’s darker volumes and construct a brand new chapter. In this case, I’m assisting in the uncovering and endurance of an infamous, nostalgic mystery rooted deep in childhood.  
Through connections, I’ve made a deal with the amusement park and lead creators of the brand new attraction. . .”_

 

It’s not that the location is in the middle of nowhere, per se, but there’s an emotion of isolation that’s conjured as the van rolls to a gravel-grinding halt, insignificant against the backdrop of dereliction. Minutes ago, they had entered what could have been a miniature shopping complex - a sprawl of tan, connected buildings - but the area was clean and empty. There was faded, white lettering that Gwen couldn’t read from her perspective in the back, peeled and stained. It’s as though, in a unique way, the pleasant town they drove through had grown and flourished strictly away from the area, like a sunflower bending towards the rosier sun. Which, at the moment, hangs low in the sky, suspended and glowing over the tips of trees, the early plumes of pink peaking out.  
As soon as there’s an official halt and the motor is cut, the front-seat, passenger door flies open.  


“Well!” 

And that’s that. They’re here. 

The silence is officially broken. Suddenly, the sounds of hurried work, jostling materials and other slamming doors accompanies the anticipation that’s now leaked out of the van. Gwen has her laptop and hiking bag that’s been packed and ready to move since an hour ago, so she, too, stomps down on the dusty parking lot to join the others. Christopher, unsuitably dressed in a light, nice looking button-down, perceptively exits with less vigor from the other side. His palm methodically rubs across the shadow on his face then travels to his forehead to push back curls as he studies the building ahead. Gwen prefers to stare as little as possible, in order to stave off the perfectly pictured wonderment she wants to experience when stepping up to it.  


She’s funneled boundless time into research, thumbing over old newspapers and calling number after number to get here, but that’s always been both her job and hobby. Starting in newspapers, from highschool to college, she transitioned her penchant for fieldwork to a genuine paycheck. All in order to buy herself a home and to allow herself to function, for the first time, as a legitimate adult. Years and years have passed since, and in that span of time she’s established a social network as a reporter in order to hunt down information, from close friends to prestigious libraries states away. By no means, however, does Gwen find inspiring interest in a majority of the stories she’s had to write, so she supplements the months of dry work with a similar passion. As it tends to be, she’ll find herself jotting down notes on an expanding, family chain in a mundane city corner while meandering by local graveyards because, rumor has it, there’s a more grisly tale to be told, and Gwen will refuse to rest until she has every iota of detail about every cold case she comes across.  
She’s a morbid connoisseur, a dilettante in the bizarre, and online she records the dramas that spark intrigue. Out of the collection of urban legends she’s amassed, this is her most extensive, distinctive one yet. 

Exclamations come from behind the van. The back has two handled doors that split out, and the other pair of occupants are half inside, half exposed to the cool, evening breeze, fumbling with silver fixtures. In their animated flurry, they stand on the toes of their sneakers, shirts riding up and thin jackets bunching.  


“This is has to be it. The sign’s still painted red beneath a tarp-- a tarp!”  


Gwen changes her hold on her own materials, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Do you need any help? I’m not sure what all you’re carrying in, but if you need those plastic boxes,” she trails off.  


“Oh, oh,” The man, auburn-haired and bespectacled with reflecting, square glasses, extracts himself from the trunk and hops away, extending a hand after brushing it off on his waist. “Gwendolyn. Sorry, we raced off this morning, we all did. It’s nice to formally meet you, face-to-face rather than blocked by all that equipment.” With a smile, she grasps his hand firmly in return.  


“Gwen works just fine, Ian.” Ian beams a little, his expression wide and honest, spurred on by the shared anticipation. “We really thank you, the two of us and the entire team, for coming here. We need all the attention we can get.” He turns towards the van and the woman still working there. In her arms is another large, cardboard box labeled simply as ‘containers’. With a second’s worth of fanangaling, she holds it using her hip, giving her one arm some freedom.  


“Cindy Jeon. She’s the--”  


“I’m the brunt of the consulting team. Hello, Gwen.” Her dark eyes are wide and unblinking, as though her lids are peeled back on habit. Gwen’s arm raises as if to wave, but she interrupts the action to swipe back a tawny strand of hair. As the youngest adult in their group, she doesn’t want to appear more childish than she undoubtedly, already does. She’s relied on making amicable first impression before, naturally, as her job relies on charisma, but her agitation is deliberately creeping into her common sense.  


“Cindy’s joining our party because she traveled a few states over to spend a weekend with stacks upon stacks of business analyst forms and ownership certifications for major companies,” Ian explains, taking out a comparatively smaller, empty container with less finesse. “Dug through miscellaneously related files and the like to find locations purchased by this specific franchise. There’s a good handful of them scattered up and down the south and midwest, but most of the places have been bought out and refurbished. Here,” Ian interrupts himself, twitching his head to the side, his eyes darting back and forth. “If you want, take the supply bag right over-- there, yeah.”  


Mentally, as Gwen slides the hiking backpack across the mats of the van and slings it over her shoulder, she takes attentive notes. “So, what’s different about this place? It looks abandoned, but the company would have presumably cleared the building out.”  


“That was the case for a few other establishments.” Cindy’s voice rises and falls, as though to warn them of possible disappointment, and Ian responds with a reticent grin.  


“The difference is that this restaurant was never a part of the franchise. When popularity dipped and tragedy struck, the failing locations were gutted for reuse. When this one shut down, it was all over. I’m assuming that everything left was essentially useless. No one wants to buy plastic seats and party hats.”  


“But vintage arcade games and mechanical parts, on the other hand,” Cindy adds, raising her eyebrows at him. “We see suits, masks, photos; all selling for high prices,” she says, turning to Gwen. “We, the team and us, aren’t the only people with this hobby. In short, none of us know what’s inside.” 

As one, the three of them glance at the rugged structure. Its corners, once adorned in a glossy red, are chipped, and the remaining paint has accumulated a dated, sepia tone. The sun has streamed over the asphalt between branches in decorative splashes, leading the way up to the door like tiny, child-sized footprints. 

“The tarp,” comes a deeper, leveled voice from nearby. “It’s as though it’s hiding the sign. All of the storefronts in this complex have had their names removed, but this one is shrouded, essentially, not erased.”  


“Christopher!” Ian exclaims, breaking them from the brief reverie, “You’ve put it into words. I had the exact same thought.” In the background, Cindy mutters a corrective ‘we don’t know’.  
Christopher, his blonde hair catching the remaining light, face a little too ashen, has his own bag resting on his shoulder blades. By his pallor, the ride over didn’t settle with him. He clears his throat. “I can carry a box, perhaps. If at all necessary.” 

From the initial moment Gwen saw Christopher, in the early afternoon, stepping from his sleek, silver car, he looked unfit for exploration in a way that transcended his clean, crisp clothing. He’s an acquaintance of hers, Gwen having met him a year ago when a project touched upon the editors in her publisher’s main offices. Their interactions had been fleeting and unmemorable, but when she grasped upon a rumor that he knew someone of her express interest, she utilized their last encounter to set up a plan that brought her all the way out here, basking in the promise of an urban legend. As the catalyst to this moment, he came along, but Gwen couldn’t fathom as to any other reason why.  
The producers of the country’s next cult horror attraction, herself, and her band of online followers have a predilection for the unknown and an unshakable curiosity. Christopher, as far as she’s observed, would prefer his clinical workspace and the logical patterns of his daily job.  
Ian may have skimmed over his subtly dissenting opinion of the new attraction, Gwen frowns, but she had noticed the crease of his brow and the tug at his lips when he had inquired, hours ago, why they would want to _‘profit off of this lore in particular’_. 

“Gwen has the last of it all, no worries." Ian rocks upwards on the heels of his worn shoes. "And, by the way, Robert says hello and apologizes for not being here.” Christopher nods curtly, and as silence sets in, the truth unfolds itself when they unanimously understand that there’s nothing left to do in preparation. 

The last flurry of adrenaline that she’s always received before stalking, head held high, into the darkness bursts inside her chest to inundate her limbs with persistent zeal. She knows clearly that it’s wishful thinking, but if there’s any possibility that the timeworn tale of brutal kidnapping, of snatched children and lives, can be solved, she’ll be the one the articles mention first. 

One by one with items in hand, they begin to move.

 

_“I am not just regaling a chilling, tragic story without reason.”_

 

There’s laughter. “We’re practically doing community service.” The grass tangling between the fissures in the sidewalk has crumpled over, twisted and brittle. “The county has given us permission to be here, to own this building for a week and take what we need. I heard that they’re going to finally turn the complex into a mall.”  
The building looms closer; it hangs over them, blocking the dying evening. 

 

_“There’s too much unsolidified, extraneous evidence out there.”_

 

The hinges of the door are a burnt, rusty color from negligence. There are winding lines of purple, Gwen notices, tracing across and stretching past the border. It’s the remnant of simple graffiti and it catches her attention. Odd, she muses, to see that even the vandalism is faded.  
Hanging stiffly is a padlock that’s more recent than any part of the structure, connected to clouded chains. Ian has the key.  


“This is it. Any last words, any bets?” His tone is unwavering and confident, and it’s not difficult to parse out the fact that his work is both a job and a fascination.  


“Empty,” Cindy smiles, “besides one, lonely cardboard box that possesses four-- no, three drawings.”  
Ian merely shrugs, setting his fingers on the cool metal. 

 

_“The franchise was commercially and wildly successful until it became too much to take care of, and unreliable sources have a countless amount of sensational tales; ghosts, murderers, company restaurants that continue to operate, dead children.”_

 

With a hefty, clattering sound of links and age colliding, crashing, to the concrete, the door lies unsealed. He tugs at the handle, bends his wrist to turn it, but particles of rust crumble away instead.  


“It’s all perfectly entombed,” Gwen marvels in hushed awe. Christopher shifts behind her.  


“I might as well,” he intercedes, and clasps the doorknob as Ian steps away, gesturing his approval.  
They’re behind him when, at last, it creaks aside to present the hollow, untouched air within.  


As though he’s heard it a thousand times before; as though the words are pressed flush against his memories, Ian announces: “A place of fantasy and fun for kids and grownups alike. _Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza_.” 

The heavy darkness gradually drapes around Christopher, then Cindy and Ian, and then Gwen. 

 

_“Without official sources, there’s no discovering, exhuming, the truth. That is to say, and to warrant repeating, without official sources.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! Thank you for reading! I won't update this on a regular schedule, but I do plan on completing it. Eventually. Really, I promise. I've got a story and everything. You might just have to wait.


End file.
